improvement, but of change. Under the influence of the Holy Spirit, the soul is revolutionized. And the change does not consist in substituting better for good, though this is included; nor does it necessarily consist in substituting good for evil, though this is most generally included; the change consists in substituting a new principle of action as the law of the soul. The change is not analogous to that in the fruitage of the tree consequent on trimming its branches, and enriching the soil that feeds its roots; it is rather analagous to that consequent on the grafting of a new branch into its trunk. Hence the significance of the "new birth," whereby the child of flesh becomes the child of God. It is the old man put off, and the new man put on. It is not that man becomes a better, but a new creature. His faculties, temperament, and general identity remaining the same, a new life fills and governs him. What was before simple rectitude, becomes sanctity; what was before kindliness of disposition, becomes affection; and what was before a cold reverence for sacred things, becomes the warmth of piety, and the incense of worship. The man seems transformed; and the transformation consists not so much in what he does, as in what he is. There is a sanctity in his bearing, and apparent even in the tremor of his voice. A heavenly fragrance breathes from his most casual deed. Virtue goes from the hem of his garment. He has been translated into the kingdom of God's dear Son. And the world takes notice that he has been with Jesus. The change is palpable, and so distinct in its character, that the hypocrite strives in vain to affect it. Even the unregenerate see through the mask; and the counterfeit is rebuked by the ungodly. Not simply improvement, then, but change, radical and profound, is the sign of regeneration.

5. We cannot conclude our treatment of the great theme without taking the opportunity to state formally, what we have all along implied, that the truth we have sought to elucidate has authoritative claims upon those who minister in sacred things. It is distinctively the truth for preaching. No sermon is truly such, or has any right to be spoken from the Christian pulpit, that is not permeated with the unction of the Holy Spirit - the spirit which regenerates every soul that it enters. Discourses on morality, discourses made up of precepts arbitrarily strung together, discourses explanatory

of theological ideas, yet lacking the regenerating quality, are as out of place in the pulpit, as metaphysical dissertations or lectures on botany. Yet the preacher that does put this regenerating quality into all his efforts, will surely preach morality, enunciate precepts, and explain theological ideas, but it will be morality, precept, and explanation, all radiant with the warmth of a spirit that pervades, recovers, and redeems.

We do not mean to affirm that the preacher of regeneration will in every sermon use the term frequently. We can conceive a sermon to be truly Christian in which the words regeneration, Holy Spirit, and kindred terms, do not once appear. In simple truth, the essential thing is, that the regenerating quality shall be in him-that his own soul shall be flooded with the divine emotion-shall be rooted and grounded in the redeeming love. Without himself being a regenerated soul, vain will be his efforts to compose Christian sermons-the divinest terms will avail him nothing. But, himself regenerated, he cannot preach other than Christian sermons. The heavenly quality has become a power within him, and he cannot discourse except as moved thereby. And if thus moved, he can have but one aim, to be an instrument, as efficient as may be, in bringing his fellows into that kingdom of God which consists not in meat and drink, but in righteousness, peace and joy:-and these not simply in the sense of self-reform and self-satisfaction, but always and distinctively, righteousness, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit-the sense which excludes the thought of self, and gives the glory to God.

G. H. E.

ART. XV.

A Providential View of War.

WHATEVER may be thought of war considered in its relations to man, the motives and the schemes of the human participants in war,-there can be but one opinion among

Christian men as to the character of war considered in its relations to God. No theist, certainly no Christian, will admit that, as relates to God, war is an accident or even an incident in the divine economy. The Divine Ruler who makes all events a means of good, has not made war an exception to the general law. Humanly speaking, most wars are wicked-many good people believe that all wars are wicked. Providentially viewed, war must have its use -must be an instrumentality for good in the end. We say, war must have a benevolent use, for the opposite presumption dethrones the Deity, and destroys the very essence of Christian faith.

We propose in this essay, to take a Providential view of War-to ascertain whether any of its benefits are discernable to human vision. And we confidently aver, that even within the scope of finite vision, war is not altogether a curse that in some particulars the blessing can be detected. There comes indeed genuine sweetness out of the bitter cup to that people who are worthy of progress, who have real virtue, who have those noble qualities upon which great deeds and high results may be founded. There is not an evil in this world but has its compensating good-even that villain Judas Iscariot, or that horrible Roman Nero, serves valuable purposes to mankind, for he always appears as an example of the baser elements of human nature bearing their natural fruit. The night is followed by the day, the storm by the bright sun, the winter by the summer and war by peace, with all its benign influences. This is not mere assertion and idle speculation. It is the suggestion of observation for which the times present great opportunity times so full of instruction that no man can let them go by unheeded.

Nations are but as water, they want movement to the bottom or they will stagnate. Their only chance for purity is in activity; so that no humors, nor any of the diseases that will invade the body politic do invade it, and find a strong and seated kingdom there. When once they find a lodgement they commence an attact upon the nation's vitality. These diseases of stagnation are not and will not be quiet; they will not take a position and there remain within fixed boundaries; they are vastly innovating, and go continually searching for, to destroy the fountains of life. Peace

is always prone to the breeding of these humors, of these life-destroying ulcers. If they once become seated, there is a pain, as it is with disease in the human body. When the pain stings, the body politic will utter its complaints, and where you hear these complaints you may know that there is disease behind them.

But the

But there are those who will always cling to these ailings and hug them as the dearest treasures of their hearts. They feel well, they are in personal comfort, they don't see that those things which they cherish as blessings are curses to the State. Hence they will not give them up. State insists that they shall give them up, for in them it fears an attack upon its own vitality. The two, therefore, are at issue. If both are persistent, then war must come. There is an attack upon the disease, and that, too, for self-preservation. It is the disease that is guilty of the first attack, and the State only strikes to repel, to beat back its enemy. Hence these blows that deal death may be a blessing.

Periods of peace only breed causes of war. England is at peace with herself, but she is having certain sundry pangs and pains that will yet need the trenchant sword. Feudalism and the imperiousness of hereditary birth and honors are not yet powerless. They form one great antagonism; and the people, the trading masses, the working masses, the middle masses, the small proprietors of the country, and the small traders of the cities and towns form the other great antagonism. These antagonisms can not live in peace; they will not forever pause with the war of words; those words must culminate in blows, and this for a surer and more sound peace. The last great battle between the people and the king must be fought. When the Barons compelled John to sign the Magna Charta, when Cromwell beheaded Charles, and when James fled to Paris to be safe from the outraged populace, each was the culmination of a long struggle of words, of discussion. Peace had bred its humors; old rights had settled into a stereotyped tyranny; the expansive powers of the people in their intellectual growths and in their material wants had outgrown the lines by which law and hereditary privileges bound them. These bonds must be broken, the sovereign authorities would not yield and blood alone could break them. Out of the storm came the sun; and the earth sprang up refreshed with new verdure and beauties.

War knits up the laxed energies of a nation. A long peace conduces to ease, luxury, a general suspension of the higher and nobler virtues of our natures. The streams of life pass from sluggishness to stupor, and from stupor to stagnation. There are no inducements to great labor, to discipline of the mind and body save those of wealth and position. There are few occasions for the exercise of the greater virtues of self-sacrifice, patriotism, charity. The pillars of the temple of state are filled with a dry rot, and fall away piecemeal. Individuals and the nation lose all discipline they fail to observe Law, the supreme and necessary law by and through which all their powers can achieve great results. At Oxford and Cambridge they teach the mind knowledge, they give it much knowledge, but less discipline. At Woolwich, our strong and sensible English cousins teach discipline of mind, of body, of character. They teach half the man at the universities; but at the Royal Military Academy they teach the whole man. It is there, not a couch of ease and a dressing gown, but it is breakfast and inspection till 8.40; study, 9 till 9.30; clean and prepare for inspection at 11.45; drill till 12.45. The universities give a liberal education, but the Military Academy gives a professional training. At the one place a man becomes a receptacle, according to his capacity; at the other, his powers are educated for achievement. the one place, knowledge may dwarf the mind, may not animate the faculties; at the other, every acquisition becomes a new motive, a new force, a new capacity for work. So, in common seasons of a nation's life, the people are devoted to acquisition, and all their training tends to that purpose. But when stern-visaged war comes, every man buckles on his armor, he goes into discipline, and he counts his days as nothing unless they show great results. War is but the Woolwich of the nation, wherein the whole people are scholars, learning that stern discipline that makes them all heroes.

At

The Times and Blackwood, and many of the tools of an effeminate old European aristocracy, call us a degenerate people, discover few virtues in us but what are redolent of the mob. They see nothing but politicians, no statesmen in our places of trust; men who are seeking to sacrifice the State to their selfishness; who acquire skill in the activites